


Wounded Body & Soul

by Lil_Jei



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, self hatred, triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6028606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Jei/pseuds/Lil_Jei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: Not my show or characters etc., I make no $ off this.<br/>A/N: Title taken from TV com…Episodic binge brought about this. Unbeta’d.<br/>Summary: John's morning musing takes a depressing turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded Body & Soul

     John woke up with a blazing headache. 7 a.m. was too early for him, especially after being asleep so long. His coma had not done him any favors in regards to his social life. Most nights since he'd woken up he'd been alone in the apartment. Just him and a bottle of bourbon. The only “person” he’d see was the delivery bot from the local noodle joint. He didn't know if that would count. Most nights that would be all the contact he could take.  
     On the good days when the ghosts weren't haunting him he’d see that quack of a recollectionist. He didn't like to go out much anymore. He felt like the eyes of the dead were on him. He especially hated the group therapy or the one on one sessions he had to attend. He had axed the physical therapist and did it himself. Unfortunately some things were required before he could go back to work or rather be clear to work. John still didn't know whether or not it was a good idea for him to go back to work.  
     Speaking of work he looked at the calendar and shuddered a bit. He grabbed at where his human leg used to be, a reflex he'd unfortunately developed. He only had a day before he had to go back to the precinct. He might have some bravado on the outside but he was a bundle of nerves on the inside. So much so that even the phone call reminder from Sandra last night had sent panic running through his veins. She had told him that at most she'd give him the day. It had ultimately sent him to his bed with the bourbon bottle. He laid there a wreck on his bed & pillows. He'd been worrying about all his tomorrows to come. John would have thought that all the life philosophizing would have been done while he dreamt life away in the coma.  
     Nothing ever went to plan though. Not since his dad had died. Now John could feel the bullseye on his back. Much like his dad probably felt in his last days. He knew that walking into the precinct would be one of the toughest things he ever had to do. He was the only survivor of a police raid gone bad. He felt the guilt of that every single day. And John just knew that outside of Sandra he would have few friends on the police force.  
     Looking back at the clock John realizes that all that empty contemplation had only take in 30 minutes of his very busy day. He didn't like waking up so early but once out of his coma he had desperately needed some kind of routine, even if it was 7 a.m. wakeup calls. To be honest though John really hated this. Every day that he woke up he asked himself why he didn't just end it all. He could get wasted, have a belly full of bourbon and noodles and just shoot himself in the head. He'd end his miserable existence right then and there.  
     It had been those dark thoughts that led him to for once take therapy seriously. Well John tried to do that. He still thought it was of crock of shit, but some of those late night thoughts had really disturbed him. He hadn't even been in that kind of mindset when his dad had been killed. And that was just as dark of a time in his life as now, at least he'd thought so. The darker thoughts hadn't scared him enough to stop drinking if this hangover from hell was any indication.  
     It all made John decide to stay in bed a few minutes more. He wanted to delay the inevitable, he didn't want to put that damn leg on any sooner than he had to. It might be the most essential part of his life right now, but some days the burden of it made him want to rage at the injustice of it all. He knew he shouldn't complain, he was alive when all his friends were not. Ignoring those thoughts John had patted the stump to rid himself of the phantom pain that remained. John does think more about how much he hates that his limb had him classed now as a cyborg or a cybernetic human. Of course that thought worsens the pain. The damn cyber/neuro connections and relays did not like the direction his thoughts were taking even without the leg attached. Any negative thoughts towards the damn hunk of junk set off twinges and twangs of pain and discomfort.  
     John leaned back a bit and tried to breathe it all out. Of course that put him at the perfect viewpoint of his ceiling. He hated that damn thing to. He'd spent so much time recovering from the blast that staring at a ceiling made him mad as well. Let's face it John told himself with how mad he was some days therapy was a good thing. He hated to admit that too, “damnit” he grumbled to himself.  
     John was just a bowl full of bitterness and hate, for himself and insydicate pretty equally. It was especially so when he was miserable from a drinking binge and suffering a hangover. He did try to get better, tried and failed more than anything. These days all John felt like was a broken drunk failure. He nearly wanted to just go back to bed but knew he needed to get up. He needed to look through his notes and files again, like he did every morning and try to make some sense of it all.  
     That's probably why he drank so much John snorts quietly. Moving around a little more he manages to sit up with only a couple moans or groans. He didn't really want to do anything today. But he had things that needed to get done. Clean up of the apartment was possible but a clean up of his guns and work gear was probable. He knew his paranoia would be in overdrive in the coming weeks. Just the thought made his adrenaline rush and his mind wake up.  
     John grunts at that and makes himself hop up to begin his day. He didn't look forward to it at all. He'd sit there and stare at that damn board until he reached for the bourbon in frustration. But he couldn't get blind drunk tonight not with a work day coming up in less than 24 hours. He had to ready himself, had to. He couldn't afford to be seen as weak on the first day back in nearly two years. Even though he felt weak he refused to look like it. Thank god he had another day he thinks or hopes sardonically as he sits at his counter. Another day to watch the damned video and regret his path.


End file.
